


Where the Earth Erodes

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comforting Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecurity, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Mind Manipulation, Monster of the Week, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Sidhe, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, later seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:29:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10168115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: When Sam explores a mysterious cavern deep in the woods behind the Bunker, he accidentally awakens a sheevra, a mischievous fairy spirit that intrudes the minds of its victims and feeds on emotions. The primary emotions the sheevra feels from Sam are not happy ones, and the steady diet of doubt and loathing drives the sheevra mad, bombarding Sam with religious hallucinations, deafening messages of failure, and attacks his soul. The sheevra's malice and Sam's resulting confessions teach both boys something about Sam. He's not fine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set in a super vague post-season eight Bunker era. Anywhere you see fit to mentally place it works for me--the only important tidbit is that the boys are on good terms.
> 
> The wonderful artist Amberdreams (Amber) made some INCREDIBLE art for this fic as a part of the Sammy bigbang, please check out her art masterpost and leave her some love! Link here: http://amberdreams.livejournal.com/480458.html
> 
> Thanks to the Sammy bigbang team for helping put this together!

 

The fog is thick and the chill is right down to the bone, but Sam doesn't mind. He puffs out a breath just to watch it curl into the sky before him, smoke from a dragon. If only he was that mighty. He wraps his jacket more tightly around his shoulders and presses play on his music player.

 

 

 

 

He steps out of the bunker's sewer-like entrance, accompanied by the relaxing guitar riffs of R.E.M.'s music as he climbs out into nature. It’s is like taking a step out of screaming reality and into a muted dream.

 

The tension leaves his shoulders with each step. The bunker's pretty massive (but bigger on the inside--where has he heard that before?) so it takes almost a full song just to walk around it and hit the wildland behind their hunter's refuge. He breaks into a jog at the edge of the trees. The paths here are overgrown, now used only by the deer and foxes, but Sam likes it better that way. With thorny vines and tired pine trees closing in on either side, the forest seems wild and unabated. Healthier without the human influence. Purer. Sam appreciates it.

 

He has a usual route but today he decides to mix things up. He steps off his barely-beaten path to push through honeysuckle bushes and spiky raspberry plants to another clearing he's spotted a few times before. The new path meanders, but stays just wide enough for him to slip through. He wonders how many paths are out here, who kept them, and who walked on them before him. He's the first of his generation.

 

Kansas isn't known for mountains or jaw-dropping rocky outcroppings. It's pretty flat. The hill that slopes downward before him is probably the most dramatic change in elevation in the area. He slips and slides down it, falling onto his ass more than once, but persists.

 

At the bottom isn't much and he never expected anything more. The path slogs through a muddy depression, peppered with hoof prints. He sighs, peering through the trees to see if anything of note ahead. It's too dense and misty to pick out any discernible features. He'll have to go farther to discover anything else.

 

He turns around to gauge the slope and how exhausting it'll be to climb up after some more adventuring. It's not bad. His eyes wander and land on a dark spot to the right of him, nestled into the spot where the end of the mound meets flat land.

 

There are a few stones, smooth and wide, and at first glance, they're fairly innocuous, but he's got a trained eye for things like this. It doesn't take long for his eyes to pick out a pattern. The stones are organized in a haphazard arch.

 

Sam pats himself down for a silver knife, just to be sure. It's paranoia, though--he's got two and his trusty Taurus. He creeps forward, pushing away the branches of young Oaks struggling to reach sunlight through the muddy ground. The dark spot he'd noticed under the arch is a hole.

 

Bigger than a snake hole, that's for sure. It's about the size of a manhole cover and a half. He crouches down at the opening and peers inside, eyes widening.

 

It's a cave. Very unusual for buttfuck, Kansas. He pulls out his flashlight and clicks it on, shining it inside. Inside, it widens to be large enough for him to walk into at a steep slouch and curves downward in a ramp. He can't tell how far it goes down. The weak flashlight beam only goes so far through the dust and dirt.

 

Sam steps back and pulls himself up, frowning. He pauses Michael Stipe in the middle of singing about gray headaches. He contemplates turning around and continuing his walk. He could come back later with Dean to investigate. This cave could have something to do with the Men of Letters. Hell, for all he know it leads right back to the Bunker, ending in some mysterious sub-sub-sub basement room that solves all of their problems at once with a bunch of magical artifacts.

 

Then again, it is a fucking hole in the ground. Sam rubs his runny nose on his sleeve and shrugs. He'll go far enough in to make out the dimensions and see if it's manmade or natural. If it's manmade, he'll grab Dean, just in case, even though Dean will most likely bitch at him and call him a baby. If it's natural, it's simply a cool spot. He could come back and open it up some more. It'd be a nice place to read a book if some light could breach it.

 

Decision made. He's overreacting. It's a hunter's default setting. He puts the flashlight into his mouth and gets down to crawl into the cave. Once inside, he gets onto his feet and does a hobbled, hunched-over shuffle deeper inside, sweeping the flashlight around in wide arcs. It doesn't appear to be man made and Sam doesn't feel nearly as on-edge.

 

Dirt, dirt, and more dirt. A few plants. Tree roots sticking out of the walls and ceilings, cloaked in spiderwebs. Mostly dirt. Still, the fact it's here at all is notable and beautiful in its own way. The sloping path only goes a few yards before ending in a shallow, cramped room, about a half-story underground.

 

He doesn't have to hunch here, but his head brushes against the ceiling, so his head stays bent, like he's bowed in deference to the gods of nature and this is their house of worship. It's giving him a pretty bad crick in his neck, though, and he's beginning to feel part mole person.

 

He shines his flashlight as far back as he can. Just a dirt wall. He reaches forward to touch it and make sure it's solid when movement at his feet startles him. He aims the flashlight downward and two luminously bright yellow orbs stare back at him.

 

"Oh, shit! Sorry," Sam bumbles, backing slowly away from the raccoon. It doesn't seem to care about him, letting out a grunt before curling back up on a pile of leaves and nibbling between its odd little fingers.

 

So he just walked straight into a raccoon's den. Smart thinking, Sam. Nice.

 

He turns to leave and sees more bright orbs of light in his periphery. Yeah, yeah, yeah. He brushes past them without looking and makes his way out of the cave.

 

He steps out and stands up straight, back cracking. The outside world is a tad too bright at first and he squints at everything, eyes adjusting. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His fingers are a little numb at this point. He should turn back.

 

He doesn't turn the music back on. He can't exactly place why, but the walk back home feels slow, like he's walking through a world of jello where clocks tick by at half speed. That refreshing, otherworldly feeling he'd gotten when he began his walk? It comes back, much stronger, and much, much less soothing.

 

He gets a niggling feeling in the back of his head, like he jumped dimensions somehow when he went into the burrow, like when he gets back home, Dean will be eighty and had waited up for him for decades that had passed by in a flash for Sam.

 

He tries to ignore it, but it's futile. His brain has latched onto it in the same way as when he leaves a theater after an unsettling movie or finishes a book he'd been reading for hours. He's fully functioning, no headache, but feels like his brain has been intruded by the same weary tree roots and ancient cobwebs as the cave.

 

He shakes his head like a dog shaking off water, hair falling into his face. He's just having a moment. Lord knows he's entitled to a few strange feelings after the life he's lived, right? He's just turning logic in useless circles by overthinking it.

 

He speeds up his pace. There's a soup can in the kitchen calling his name right now. Maybe he and Dean could watch a movie together, too. He'd like that.

 

_Liar_

 

Sam stops, rubbing at his temple. "Shut up, intrusive thoughts," he says out loud, and blushes. He hasn't done this in awhile, but he never thought he'd get rid of the nasty voice in the back of his head, either.

 

Still, it leaves a hollow feeling creeping up from his stomach to his throat.

 

_Shame_

 

Sam breaks into a run the moment the bunker appears out of the fog, a steady warship, a sentinel, a hesitant home, all in one.

 

_No home for you_

 

_No lover_

 

_Do you deserve it?_

 

He pushes inside with a huff. He trots down the stairs, announcing his arrival with the loud thunk-thunk-thunk of his heavy footfalls. He makes a beeline for his bedroom and tosses his headphones and music player onto the bed, shedding his jacket and hanging it over the back of his chair.

 

He kicks off his boots and steps back into the hallway in sock-clad feet. He wants to rest, wants to stop moving, but at the same time, he needs distraction. He needs food. He needs Dean.

 

_Worthless_

 

Sam holds back a deep sigh and forces his mouth to lift at the corners, banishing the hopeless frown from his features.

 

He makes his soup and almost moans at the first bite. He wasn't even in the woods that long but his exhaustion rivals that of running a marathon. Dean comes in moments later, trying to look like he'd arrived by purposeless wandering, but Sam can easily tell by the expression on his face that he'd been looking for Sam. It shows in the relief on Dean's face, warming Sam up more than than the hot chicken noodle in his belly.

 

_Burden. Burden._

 

"There you are," Dean says, snapping Sam away from his thoughts. "Good walk? Zen? Center your chakra?"

 

Sam plays his part and rolls his eyes at Dean, but the weight still lingers. It gives him an off-putting flashback of sitting complacently, only invested in reality about a third of the time, while a technician draped a lead apron across his body. They performed an x-ray and found his skull fractured. 2000. That's still his only persisting memory of that entire hunt. Vampire, Dean told him after, jaw clenched. He doesn't talk of it, and Sam only gets lackluster tidbits of information if he ever presses Dean.

 

Dean sits down next to him, knees brushing. He links his ankle with Sam's and tugs. "Hey," Dean says. "Major Tom. You good?"

 

Sam blinks at Dean. He considers lying, telling Dean he's fine.

 

_Pathetic. I told you. Liar._

 

Okay, fine. "I've just been feeling weird ever since I went in the woods," Sam admits, shrugging. "I've just got a headache. I was hoping the soup would help."

 

"Want a pill?" Dean asks.

 

Sam shakes his head. "It's not that bad," he says. "I think I just need some rest."

 

Dean claps his hands together. "We've got a rare break on our hands, kiddo, so rest it is."

 

_Burden. You're keeping him here. Caging him._

 

Sam blinks.

 

Dean stands. "Whaddaya say to a slasher flick, huh? That always calms me down."

 

"Sure," Sam agrees. "I'll meet you in my room."

 

Dean pats him solidly on the shoulder and musses his hair before leaving. Sam smiles to himself, ducking his head and closing his eyes. "I am fine," he thinks to himself. He nods. "I am fine."

 

He finishes his soup and puts the bowl in the sink. He turns to leave the kitchen and the pressure at the back of his skull doubles.

 

 _Why do you do this to yourself?_ A disembodied, wavering version of his own voice asks him. _Fix things, shambled boy. Atone._

 

Sam swallows, frowning. He resists the urge to talk back to it. Would it be childish to mumble "I'm doing my best?" Sam knows the answer. He concentrates on the tiled floor ahead of him and makes it back to his room more or less in one solid piece.

 

***

 

Dean chooses the worst movie Sam has ever seen and it's honestly therapeutic. It's a gesture repeated a thousand times throughout his life, a security blanket worn through by anxious fingers.

 

Bright red blood, obviously dyed cornstarch, splatters across the camera lens as the victim screams in horror. The screeching soundtrack is a too-heavy nod to Jaws. Sam sighs, grinning softly, and snuggles down into Dean's side. He rests his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean grunts, enraptured with the movie but always keeping Sam in his thoughts, and wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders.

 

In a perfect world, Sam would kick up the blankets from the end of the bed and throw them over his body. He'd close his eyes and drift into a peaceful sleep, listening to Dean's steady breaths from deep in his chest. Almost womblike. No nightmares.

 

He's still got a headache, though, and while his mental health seems to be improving, he can't shake the dregs of foreboding worry, like pools of sloughed-off shapeshifter skin at his feet and he's an imposter cuddling up to his brother.

 

_Aren't you? Does he even really know you?_

 

Sam widens his eyes and focuses on the dialogue hard enough that the words appear in his head, one by one. He keeps it up for awhile and it seems to help. The killer's gone after another woman. It's the protagonist's little sister.

 

His exercise in concentration is shattered by Dean clearing his throat and removing his arm from around Sam's shoulders. Instead, he places it on Sam's knee.

 

It only takes about a scene and a half for Dean's warm palm to creep from Sam's knee to his thigh to his inner thigh. A quick peek at Dean shows a bulge pressing at his zipper. Sam tries to give Dean a look but Dean's grinning smugly at the T.V. screen, like he knows how it's all going to play out.

 

Of course he does.

 

Dean's knuckles start slowly kneading at Sam's crotch, the bastard. It doesn't take long for the movie and the thoughts to be forgotten, clothes kicked off with abandon, bodies pushed down into the mattress.

 

Sam's hips buck up into Dean's touch. Dean's hands are goddamn magic. Dean pays a quarter for those stupid vibrating beds but Sam gets something far better for free. He moans into Dean's mouth, focusing on pressing his tongue into Dean's mouth.

 

As much as Sam would like to give himself over to the pleasure, it's just one of those fucking days. He used to have more of them. Dean always understood, reading Sam easier than a book with illustrations. Whether it was Lucifer, lost loves, or something else, Dean had a special skill in being able to tell when sex was not the answer.

 

It's a semi-infrequent answer for Sam and a very frequent one for Dean.

 

"Hey," Dean breathes into Sam's mouth. Sam blinks and flushes red when he realizes he'd been going soft, caught up in his obsessive thoughts on darker pastures.

 

"It's okay," Sam says, tilting his head back to catch Dean's eye and smile at him. "Keep going."

 

Dean pauses for the barest second before his fingers curl around Sam's shaft again. Sam shivers. It's a good feeling. He can enjoy this. He wants Dean.

 

_You'll never be enough for him. A failure. Worthless wretch. He can tell, can't he? You're used goods. The drunk girl at the party._

 

Sam gasps, cutting off the kiss lest he swap something more foul than spit with Dean. Dean pulls away sitting up. "Coulda told me, Sammy," he says, trying for light, but.

 

"I... I thought," Sam swipes at his lips with his tongue. "I guess my head still hurts. Sorry, Dean, really, I-"

 

Dean holds up a hand. "Don't," he says, a low murmur from his chest. "You want an Advil?"

 

Sam shakes his head, worrying his lip between his teeth. He'd been fine earlier, hadn't he? He'd been fine for awhile. More than fine. Really truly.

 

Dean brushes Sam's hair away from his forehead. "Get some sleep then," he says. "If you need me, I'll be in my room, on the internet."

 

"Right," Sam says, watching Dean's backside as he hops off the bed. "The internet."

 

Dean scoffs. "Whatever," he says. "No night owls tonight, you hear?"

 

Sam feels like a child when he nods. Dean nods back, satisfied, giving Sam one last lingering look before slipping out of the room and leaving the door open a crack.

 

Sam flops back against the bed and closes his eyes. He's still naked and flaccid and he's not like Dean. He can't flaunt it. Even a single look in the mirror after a shower can be enough to send his mind a thousand feet above his body, refusing connection.

 

 _Because you know what you are,_ Robot-voiced Sam spits at him. _Freak. Sick fuck._

 

Sam shakes his head roughly and scrambles about putting his clothes on with hunter's efficiency. Less than a minute later he's fully clothed. He stares at the closet for a moment before the decision is made. He throws it open and pulls out a worn, grey hoodie, about two sizes too small for him now. He presses the fuzzy hood to his nose and takes a deep whiff. His heart slows. He puts it on.

 

It helps, a bit. Better than nothing. He'll take what he can get.

 

He goes to the bathroom and takes a piss and goes through his nightly routine. Dean's right. Dean's a veteran with Sam's attacks and things. Sleep helps. Sleep helps.

 

Sam's been avoiding it like the plague but he can't help but gaze at his reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands. He's surprised to find his eyes aren't grey and lifeless, sunken and baggy. His skin isn't pale and peeling, hair matted and knotted. He looks absolutely fine.

 

He still has to fight revulsion at the look in his eyes. He can't describe it and he firmly refuses to. He lowers his gaze, showing submission to his own fucking reflection.

 

_How much longer will it go on like this?_

 

"No," Sam says out loud, and immediately feels a potent mix of stupid and crazy.  He is not having it.

 

_You remember it, don't you? The way Dean felt. You were just another shoe waiting to drop, a basket case, lost marbles, sad and pathetic. He still feels it and you know it. You know it's true._

 

"Shut up," Sam growls, suddenly heated, irate. He paces around his room, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

 

_Vermin. Useless. Freak._

 

His eyes lose focus on everything and burn sharply at the corners. His jaw locks up. His ears burn. His chest swells with an ocean feeling, a hurricane feeling. He wants to scream or punch something but he knows it wouldn't abate the pressure, wouldn't stop the hiccupy-achey feeling from making his throat sore.

 

He can't force a smile or a laugh. He knows- he fucking knows- he shouldn't be angry, he shouldn't be thinking these thoughts, or thinking about thinking these thoughts, but it doesn't god damn help. All the metacognition in the world couldn't stop his brain from screwing itself. It's almost routine.

 

"I'm fine," he says out loud, flopping back onto the bed with a whuff, energy spent in a single breath. "I'm fine," he repeats, and hey, his voice only cracks a little.

 

He watches the blades of the ceiling fan spin around in lazy circles and contemplates getting up and heading over to Dean's room. A single look and Dean would get it.

 

But he doesn't want to to forever be the kid. The damsel. Sure, it's okay to need help, for the love of fuck that was one of the biggest and most painful lessons that both of them have learned, quite thoroughly. This is different. This might be diagnosed by a psychiatrist as masochism.

 

Like the clear sounding of a church bell on a crisp Sunday afternoon,

 

_Repent._

 

He swallows. Saliva floods his mouth. It's eight steps to collapse in front of the toilet. Twenty-seven to sprint to the other half-open door down the hallway.

 

Yet his limbs are like lead. He's been strapped down. His feet hang off the end of the tiny cot. Above his head, the fan behind the pentacle grate pushes cold air down on him with those big sharp blades.

 

His pulse thrums loudly in his ears, pulsates thickly all over his body, in every vein. He's dying. His veins are heavy now, filled to the brim with inky, sickly black. Something growing in him. Something forced in him.

 

Cold water hits his face and he gasps, eyes springing open, but they're sightless. They were burned away hundreds of years ago. The cage floor beneath him is ice, absolute zero, dark and endless.

 

His legs are spread and he is torn apart, physically, spiritually, and he cannot stop it. He thought, naively, long ago, that his body could grow numb to pain, his mind indifferent. A different animal, well-adjusted, what a funny joke. Who said it? Who said that?

 

He feels the intrusion inside and his eyes water endlessly. He hasn't had a drop to drink but he can wail like a fucking baby. It never stops. He's tried stoicism, begging, bargaining, fighting, dying.

 

He gets used.

 

He closes his eyes and shivers. He can hear each ragged pant coming from his own mouth, and while the pain is his own, everything else feels separate. It's strangely intimate to witness one's own body on the cross.

 

When he opens his eyes, he's overheated, the wooden fan blades spinning above him, just like always.

 

The walls are brick to his left and right, just like always. His desk is neatly organized. His music player is digging into his calf, pushed to the foot of the bed in careless rush earlier.

 

He is alive. He feels no pain. He is still alive. He is safe.

 

His tongue slides across his teeth and he tastes mercury.

 

Like a thermometer shattering on the ground,

 

_Repent._

 

_Repent._

 

_Repent._

 

Sam closes his eyes, measuring his breaths, counting sheep. He curls up under the covers, fully clothed. He shuffles across the bed until his face lands on the pillows Dean had used. He presses his nose into the material to muffle potential sobs and to breathe in the scent of his brother. It usually works as a soporific, but right now it twinges close to his heart in something like grief. Regret. The internal voice is happy to point it out.

 

He only falls asleep in pure exhaustion after the eight-hundredth and forty-second sheep, his head pulsing in time with the chanting, _Repent, Repent, Repent_. No, he wants to scream back. Sheep, sheep, sheep. Rest.

 

***

 

Sam wakes to a pressure on his chest and he almost cries out and loses it right then and there. He opens his eyes, slowly, like prying apart the petrified jaws of a corpse. He can taste the dust and decay, feel the various worms and bugs skuttle underneath the skin.

 

 

 

 

Dean's hand is on his chest, pressed into the fabric of the hoodie. The drawstring of the hood is curled around his index finger, around and around and around. He isn't meeting Sam's eyes, instead looking at Sam's throat with a distant frown.

 

The med kit pops out of his periphery at that moment, teleported there, and his eyes zing to it, brain taking ages to process the reason, the cause and effect of it all.

 

He swallows past iron dryness. "I'm okay," he tells Dean, nodding along, mostly to convince himself. "I had a nightmare."

 

Dean laughs but the tremble of his mouth and the sheen of his eyes indicate a different emotion. "Seems like a little bit more than that, kiddo," he says, and it's Sam's turn to frown.

 

Sam feels the cuts after several beats of silence, little pinpricks of mild pain coming to life up and down the column of his throat, across his cheeks. He raises a shaking hand to his face and sees dark brown blood caked under his fingernails.

 

He can't help the well of frustration beading at the corner of his eyes. It just seems so fucking... he's not stupid enough to believe the world is fair, but god, it's so damn unfair. Here they are, for once, for fucking once, not at each other's throats and not staring down the barrel of the fifty-second world-ending gun. They have a moment. When was the last time that happened? Really truly?

 

He should have bruises in the shape of Dean's mouth on his throat, not self-inflicted wounds that he doesn't remember anything about. They should be going a bit soft around the bellies, just a tad, with a motherfucking home cooked pie wrapped up in plastic wrap in the fridge.

 

Dean sniffs something out of the change in his expression. He goes from looking like a disappointed orderly to something more fraternal. He curls a hand around Sam's jaw, but he's hardly touching Sam.

 

"Not porcelain," he thinks, in a sigh, a thought he's thought a thousand times before.

 

"I swear I'm okay," he says instead. "Not like--not like saying I'm fine, it's all good, I'm not the best, but I'm okay, I swear."

 

_Who are you trying to convince?_

 

Sam closes his eyes.

 

_How many times do you have to burn before you finally get it?_

 

Dean is saying something but it's background noise, it's the static of a limb, slept upon, nothing more.

 

_Maybe it is too late for you, broken little bird. Maybe you will never get it. I tried to help you see. But you are truly worthless. Lower than vermin. All you do is feel sorry for yourself. All you do is lick your wounds hard enough to make them bleed harder, then flash your doggy eyes at anyone who will take pity._

 

"It's not true," Sam finds himself gasping, trying to speak in vain past a closing throat. He's panting. It's just like the cage. The voice has gotten a few things right, he admits quietly to himself. It never ends. "It's not... true."

 

Something shakes his face, squeezing his cheeks, and he opens his eyes to see the blurry visage of a homely face floating over his. Green eyes, green eyes. It's like trying to remember the name of a favorite childhood movie. It's right there, it really is, but he can't think. All he can do is stare at the freckles with drool pooling in the back of his lax mouth.

 

Something in his head screams at him and he flinches. Jessica once told him the voice in your head can never change in volume. A whisper, a laugh, a yell, they all sound the same.

 

Then why does his head hurt so fucking bad? Why does the scream break something deep inside, an aneurysm in slow motion?

 

"Something is wrong," he thinks, of course it is, it's been established, but fuck, that voice is different. There are two voices. Two voices in his head. The fact it took him so long to reach that conclusion is... certainly telling. A single sentence, odd in its lucidity, floats through his head: I could possibly benefit from seeing a professional.

 

He's being possessed.

 

The thought gives way to an intimate feeling of revulsion but the need to tell Dean that something is wrong is soul-deep, violent enough to snap him out of his reverie. He focuses on Dean's red eyes, on his pink lips speaking way too fucking fast.

 

"What?" he coughs.

 

Dean looks like he's about to pass out from relief. "Sammy? Sammy? Sammy, hey, you with me now? What's happening? Tell me what's wrong. Tell me so I can fix it."

 

"He's found his way inside me," Sam thinks, and it's kind of funny. In the way anything is funny right before lethal injection. "Help me," his mind begs.

 

His lips curls into a snarl instead, and he can feel it but he can't stop it. His eyes are crying without his permission. "Fuck you," his mouth says, his mind sending the opposite message, "ffffffffuck... you."

 

A brick to the face, a curtain dropped without warning.

 

Sam goes from indescribable pain to a lack of everything and anything.

 

Just as fast, he gets a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. He gasps, sitting up straight and immediately falling back against the wall, head swimming. Oh god. A hangover times twenty-seven. Squared.

 

He rubs a hand at his temple. He's not wet. Not a real ice bucket, then. Great. Fantastic. Nothing about his situation surprises him. Who knows how long he's been possessed, been losing track of time. It always happens. Or, maybe it just never stopped. Or.

 

Sam stops that train of thought right before the cliff, thank you very much. He squints at his surroundings. He's not in his room anymore. He very well could be, though, seizing on the bed, Dean begging him to stop, caught up in a hallucination.

 

There's no use dwelling on that kind of logic, though. It won't do anything for him, won't draw him out faster or send him quicker to death.

 

Jesus christ. He's in the kitchen. He's back in the fucking kitchen.

 

He looks at his watch face like it'll tell him how much time has elapsed or if he's been here the whole time. He bites his lip and looks away, finally just letting the tears fall. There's no use in keeping up a weak facade of stoicism. He's not his dad and he's not his brother.

 

He lets out a sob. He can't understand what the watch says. It just doesn't make sense. The logic isn't there.

 

He stands up on Bambi legs and leans heavily against the wall, soaking up the rough, cool texture of the bricks. It's reassuring, grounding. He gives himself a small moment.

 

Game plan. There is no plan. He has no advantage. "Drop the act," he thinks, "you have no idea what the fuck is going on."

 

What a surprise.

 

Sam pushes away from the wall and walks toward the fridge. He makes a faltering half-step, forces himself to turn away. That's another important Winchester lesson. Drinking is not the answer. Unless the question is fun, and this is not a very fun predicament.

 

_I wanted you to confess. I wanted you to atone and repent. If you could show Dean the rot inside maybe he would finally leave you. Maybe you would finally die. You are sick, diseased. Your mother should have aborted you. She wanted to, you know. Your growth in her belly was a tumor. She knew you would come out with mucus eyes of yellow, and little black claws._

 

"Shut the fuck up, just stop it," Sam growls, dropping all pretense of stability. His entire body is shaking, the headache remains, and maybe the voice is wrong about him, he's not like that, but he sure as hell is at the end of his rope. This won't go on much longer, one way or another.

 

An image starts to burn onto the underside of his eyelids, blindingly bright, and he hisses. It's difficult to make out at first, but each owlish blink of his near-useless eyes makes it clearer. It's a stained glass window from a church. He can't make out the image's details, but it's definitely a portrait of a man, probably Jesus himself.

 

He shakes his head, mashes his knuckles roughly against his eyes. He blinks rapidly.

 

_If only you had confessed..._

 

_God won't listen to you now. His ears are deaf to the demons and underlings of this world. You are bound for the world of dirt. No fire, no ice, only beetles. God lost you long ago. But you still had Dean for so long. You could have confessed to him. You had a sliver of light left._

 

_But you lost it._

 

The final sentence is accompanied by an increase in brutality of the headache. He drops to his knees and stays there, shaking, wavering back and forth. The light is killing him; he sees halos around everything, accompanied by a discordant ringing in his ears.

 

"Get out," he coughs, cheeks burning with shame at the weak sound of his voice echoing across the kitchen, like the entire universe is damning him, mocking him. "Get out of my head."

 

_I am a part of you. I am you. I tried to help, to feed from the good. You have none. You did this to yourself. You turned yourself dark and unforgivable._

 

Sam shakes his head, over and over, the headache rendering him mute. He's practically struck dumb. He knows, vaguely, that he's drooling onto the floor tiles. He can't think over the pain. It's supernatural pain, most definitely, he's familiar with it. It can't be adjusted to, can't be blocked out, can't be fought. It only builds and burns down any and all defenses.

 

And Sam does not have many left.

 

His forearms give out beneath him and he falls to the floor in a pathetic pile of his own various body fluids.

 

The voice yells again, pure manic rage, building with each bursting blood vessel in Sam's temples. He curls up into fetal position, moving like the deer at the hunter's feet. He can't hear. He can hardly feel. Even without any form of confirmation, he's fairly certain he's still crying, quietly, like a fatherless child.

 

His eyes are already closed but he squeezes them shut tighter, and somewhere in the insensate mess he wishes with unfounded vehemence for the stained glass window to disappear. He doesn't want to see it.

 

The loss building in the pit of his stomach, the painful, muscle-contracting knowledge of his own sin and failures, is familiar. He can't tell his ass from his pinky but he knows he has given up. It isn't the first time. It isn't as rare a feeling as he'd like.

 

There's no fight left in him. He acknowledges the voice, the truth of its furious revolt against him. He would still like to wish that he's not evil, but maybe... maybe it did fester. His soul is only blisters, and it's not a miracle it's still alive, it's the opposite. Like a middle finger to goodness and god. He can feel it choking away inside his chest.

 

He can't move. He has enough energy left for one last thought:

 

"It's over now."

 

***

 

Sam wakes up, the skin all over his body either aching, under pressure, or pulled taut. He thinks blearily that he's passed out more times in his life than a dozen narcoleptics combined, but the thought isn't accompanied by resentment or bitterness. He's too tired to manage complex human emotions.   
  
The smell of antiseptic accompanies the skin-pull feelings, as always. All that's missing is a steady beep or the closed-in feeling of the cement walls of the nearest hospital.   
  
He opens his eyes. It takes him a minute. They're crusted over like he's been ill for awhile, sniffly and sneezy, but that's not the kind of weakness he feels. His mind has been stuffed full of q-tips, pushed in one by one through his ears, considering his hearing appears to be compromised. That or the world has gone much softer in his absence. He wishes.   
  
When his eyes focus, they go in circles, following the fan blades without question. The repetition would be comforting if he hadn't lain exactly like this while on death row before, counting down the days before the final trial.   
  
Once all of his senses are returned to him, his brain slowly comes back online. He's in his room. He lifts his head an inch or two, as high as it will go, and holds it for a couple of seconds to examine his own body. He drops his head back onto the pillow, letting out a long breath. He doesn't have to be a doctor for him and his brain to reach the consensus that he's in a bad way.   
  
At first he'd thought he was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. The tightness and unusual texture proved it to be gauze. He doesn't have to look to know it's on his legs, too; to know he's got stitches spanning the whole of his abdomen and his face; and to see the I.V. hanging from the bedpost in his periphery.   
  
He kinda-sorta remembers wearing his orange plaid shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of jeans. He's in soft PJ pants and a worn Metallica shirt now, that pulls slightly across the shoulders. It smells nice.   
  
He makes to sit up, but he can't even prop himself up on his elbows before a hand presses lightly against his chest and keeps him down. Deja-vu.   
  
He rolls his neck to the left and blinks slowly. Dean has dragged his desk chair to his bedside. He looks like he went five rounds with the Impala and lost.   
  
Sam clears his throat and winces when the pain is sharp there, too. He tastes blood and licks his lips. He tries again. "Hey."   
  
Dean's face doesn't change. Nor does he look away or blink. "Hey."   
  
Sam has performed this production many times. He wants to get past the preliminary stuff and find out if Dean is okay, 'cause fuck, he just looks so... he has the same look he had when Sam was doomed with the Croatoan virus all those years ago. Sam isn't being immodest when he labels it love-sadness.   
  
"Do I want to know," he asks haltingly instead.   
  
Dean gets up and brings him a glass of water before he answers. He holds it to Sam's mouth and lets him drink about half before taking it away. Silence rests for several moments, and Sam isn't anxious. He's just waiting for the clearer memories to resurface. He waits like the hanged man waits for the executioner to give the call to drop the floor from beneath him.   
  
Dean sighs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the mattress. He fiddles with the sheet and his hand wanders over to Sam's and stays there, perfectly innocently. "You, uh," he coughs. "You somehow got saddled with a Sidhe."   
  
"A Sidhe?" Sam repeats. At full power, he'd rack his mind like a computer searches for a file, but right now, it's more like a stoned college student aimlessly wandering the stacks, hoping some old book on the cramped metal shelves will have a title pertaining to his essay topic.   
  
What was Sam thinking about?   
  
Ah, yes. "They're not..." Sam tries. "They're not like the fairies we met, they're not supposed to be evil."   
  
"Not all Sidhe are," Dean says. "You had the luck of meeting a prankster. Sheevra. Sheevra feed off of emotions and toy with people, eating up the frustration n’ shit. Thing is, even those ones rarely seriously injure people."   
  
"Why did this one?" Sam asks, remembering the woods, remembering the stained glass. He has half of a puzzle completed, with key little details still yet to be finished.   
  
Dean puts his head in his hand and Sam's heart gives a rough tug. "All the research says they feed on prominent emotions. If someone is embarrassed about something, it eats that shit up. Goes for the best in town, I guess."   
  
Sam closes his eyes. If Dean goes any further they may come to yelling at each other. "I get it," he says. He remembers things with more clarity as he comes out of the mind-fog. The coolness of kitchen floor tiles under his hands. Screams turning his throat to sandpaper and stones.   
  
The voice. The words. Possession.   
  
Atonement.   
  
Sam gags. Dean starts to ask if he needs a trash can but Sam shakes his head with as much vigor as possible before Dean can finish a single word.   
  
"Dean," he says. "Dean." A hand comes to rest on his forehead, not checking his temperature.   
  
"I-" Dean cuts himself off. He leans forward and moves his hand to Sam's scalp, digging his fingers into Sam's hair. He kisses Sam's forehead.   
  
Sam's eyes water.   


Sam closes his eyes. "Tell me-" he coughs. "Tell me the rest, everything that happened to you."

 

Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair once before he leans back and drops heavily into the desk chair with a grunt. "Then we've gotta talk."

 

Sam smiles, without energy. "I know." He has his own plans for that conversation.

 

Dean clears his throat. "Well, uh, I shoulda known earlier, but I just told myself I was seeing things which was--I just wanted the damn break to last a minute."

 

Dean doesn't have to explain himself. There's no room for purged guilt here. "I know," Sam rasps. "Me too, I did the same thing, or else I woulda gone to you for help earlier."

 

The tone Sam uses is unmistakeable, he knows. _It was both of us. It was neither of us. Move on._

 

Dean nods. "When you didn't come back from your run for awhile, later'n usual, I went looking for you. I went in the woods and called for you, but you didn't answer. Called your phone, too. I went back inside and I was all freaked out but you were just sitting in the kitchen eatin' soup. You looked worn out so I just guessed you needed a longer run, and I get that. When I got up, I looked back at you and you were all shiny. Like how streetlights look through the raindrops on the windshield, you know? Like a spreading circle aura thing."

 

Sam nods. "A glimmer."

 

"Yeah, a glimmer. But you ain't a fairy so I dismissed it. I didn't have Sidhe on the mind, Sam, I-"

 

"Keep going," Sam cuts him off.

 

"Right." Dean looks away. "At first, it was just like you were having a bad day. On those days it's like you need me to touch you but you can't bear it either, so I wasn't really suspicious then. Just... worried, I guess. Then I heard you screamin', these horrible, awful animal sounds, and I ran... and you were seizing up, clawing at yourself, your eyes rolled up in your head..."

 

Sam feels himself sinking into the bed. He remembers that. He remembers the words and the hallucinations, how vividly he was dropped back into hell. He feels a little dizzy. With normal people, he's sure Sheevra make them hallucinate dog shit on the stairs and they trip. With him, it's another of many deaths.

 

"Anyways," Dean says, staring blankly across the room, "I tried asking you what was wrong, and you got all frothy and violent and told me to screw off. I tried pinning you but you ran.  Then you were, uh, glimmering again, in the hall. It was so bright I could hardly see. I tried following it, but it disappeared. You did, too. I went with my gut and ran into the woods."

 

Sam shakes his head, feeling a stitch under the right side of his jaw strain slightly with the movement. "I wasn't in the woods."

 

"I know that now," Dean says. "But it was so--it was like a bullshit fairy tale. I could see your footprints so easily, like someone had drawn them on the ground. I followed them to this little cave. It was glowing."

 

Sam follows along with Dean, rapt. Each word makes Dean's voice thinner, his eyes more pinched. He's bracing himself for something. Whatever it is, it's obvious now that the Sheevra pulled Sam in from the start. He was ensnared, never had a chance against something that could alter perceptions of time, cause such powerful visions and reactions like it did.

 

"So I got out some iron shavings and my silver knife. Based on the whole glowy shit, I was thinkin' it was a fairy now. I go in ready to beat the shit out of the tiny bastards, but there weren't any. There were some candles--well I guess more like just lights, and in the center, a corpse, and."

 

Dean looks away. The light on the nightstand shines brightly in the whites of his eyes. Sam can only watch as Dean rebuilds his walls, scrubbing a hand down his face to wipe away any tears that might fall.

 

"It was you," Dean says quietly. "It was you, if you'd been there for thirty years. Dusty and leathery and mostly just raggedy clothes and bones and some hair. At first I didn't know what to do. I've seen you gone before but this was different. I just couldn't.

 

"We've never dealt with any kinds of Sidhe, only read about 'em or heard Bobby's crazy stories. That's when I realized you might not be dead, it might be something else. It might be the spot between our world and theirs."

 

Sam makes the connection, thanks to Dean's reference. Rufus had once hunted a Sheevra who turned an entire town cynical and paranoid by feeding on the innocence of girls. Sheevra can't exist in this world for long in their pure energy forms, and human connections can't last forever. They need a home base, a recharging station connected to their dimension. In a lot of traditional folklore, it's marked by cairns, or fairy circles, or other natural oddities. Rufus found the spot- in a high school basement, no less- and destroyed it. The Sheevra starved to death, trapped in a silver cage of Bobby's design.

 

Sam had walked right into the Sheevra's home, the Sheevra's portal. For all he knows, it could've been sleeping there for years and years before he woke it up, like a polar bear after hibernation, starved and craving sustenance. It could've been rabid.

 

“The link," he says. "The cave was its home. But why was my body there?"

 

"I don't think it was really there," Dean tells him. "I think... it was driven insane by what it ate from you. I think that's how the energy was manifesting, all alone, away from you. I think it stayed there so it could die. So I could put it out of its misery. It led me there, Sammy. The thing's smart. If it wanted to fight, I woulda lost."

 

"That's a big stretch from the one in Sioux Falls," Sam points out, feeling childishly defensive. What Dean's saying makes sense, but it's horrible. Plain and simple. He can't bear the look on Dean's face. "I almost died, I saw my own greatest hellfire hits, I almost tore myself to shreds. I wanted to die. That's how bad it was. Are you sure it wasn’t something else? Something that copies bodies?"

 

"Look," Dean says, head lowered, tone lower than that. "The one with Rufus looked like a glowing human when it was trapped in the cage without a body. That one wasn't doped up on fire and brimstone. Your head messed with it, broke it. So it looked broken."

 

"What did you do then?" Sam asks, bulldozing over the rest of Dean's explanation.

 

Dean gives him a long look, far more understanding than Sam would like, but starts to speak again, switching tracks. "I salted and burned your--the bones. When I came back, I found you in the kitchen in a pool of your own blood. Pale like you were dead. I found your pulse and I brought you here and patched you up. I'm pretty sure it's gone, but the link is still there. We have to bury the hole in the woods."

 

Sam opens his mouth, but it's Dean's turn to speak over him. "So now that you know everything," Dean says, "we have to talk."

 

"And we will," Sam says, ignoring how quickly Dean's eyes narrow, "but like you said, we have to destroy the link. Let's go."

 

"Hey, whoa." Dean pushes Sam's shoulders back into the bed. His little attempt to sit up had hurt like hell, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. "You're in no shape to be diggin' graves right now."

 

"It's just a few piles of dirt."

 

"Frozen dirt. Frozen, muddy, shitty, dirt. That you have to load into an underground closet. We'll get to it Sammy, you know I wouldn't forget it. And that is so not what we're talking about right now."

 

Sam feels very small. He worries his tongue against his teeth, tastes the last traces of iron in his mouth. "I know," he says. "There's stuff I gotta tell you, too. I'm sorry."

 

Dean hardly reacts to Sam's heartfelt apology. He gets up and turns away. It gets a little harder for Sam to breathe, and he looks down at the comforter covering his lap, the lines blurring.

 

Dean doesn't go for the door. He walks around the bed and climbs up and into the empty spot, shuffling and grumbling about until he's under the covers, too, punching the pillow and propping it up against the headboard, getting comfortable.

 

Dean wraps an arm around him. It's warm and good, and even the dull spot of pain where Dean's wrist rests against what Sam assumes is a pretty ugly bruise helps anchor him in reality. There's a beat of silence filled only with the sounds of their breaths and the quiet rustle of Dean's jiggling leg against the sheets.

 

"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam watches him out of the corner of his eye, staring at the lines of Dean's profile; his lips, bitten in worry, his freckles, his nose, twice broken with a peak in the middle. "You've been dealt a rough hand. It's always been like that, since you were six months old. And I know I wad'n't--I know I didn't always get it, I didn't always give you the help you needed. It's been a long time, man. We're both old. I know more now. I can talk more now. So, I guess I just want you to know... I can help. Or. Other people can, if you need that."

 

Dean opens his mouth to say more, but he lowers his eyes and fiddles with the end of the blanket instead, folding it neatly around Sam’s waist.

 

Sam knows the effort is there, the love is there. Rationally, he knows Dean has forgiven him for just about everything, and is trying his damn hardest to forgive the rest. He knows Dean has regrets.

 

"The Sheevra was right, about some things it told me," Sam says, observing himself saying it, hyper-aware of how he's growing distant. "I am used. I did get hurt. And I did punish myself. I never reached out for help. I'm messed up, I get that."

 

"Sometimes I want to die," he says, matter-of-factly. "Sometimes I want to be dead. Sometimes I want to be nothing. Sometimes I am nothing. I'm sorry for never telling you. I'm sorry for everything I've ever done and everything I've ever said. The Sheevra wanted me to atone. I need to. Meg, Gadreel, Lucifer... they're still inside me. I think... a part of me is keeping them there. Like I'll fall apart without the knife in my back."

 

Dean shifts closer, hips touching, bodies meeting in multiple spots of warmth. Sam can't help but feel a dull sort of astonishment- if that's even possible- that he's generating some of the heat.

 

"I was-" Sam clears his throat and shifts his gaze from Dean's face and the expressions mixing around there, with some of it being what Sam fears is pity. He stares at the door instead and mentally digs up a moat around himself and fills it with sharks. "I was assaulted, and tricked, and I lived in a custom hell for over ten times the length of time I was in love with you. And I'm trying to be normal, but I'm just pretending. I can't do it. I'm scared and I hate myself and I hate everyone else and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. We would be in a different situation if I had been a better person. It's not just being cursed or something, you know? It's me."

 

Sam wipes away a tear hard enough to start a small fire in the various stitches and bruises across his cheek. "So this is me. Repenting. I don't give a damn what God thinks anymore, but I give a damn about you. This is me. This is on me. There."

 

Sam leans back into the pillow and sighs the whole way down. He can practically see the energy leaving his body and occupying the room around them. He's not tired, though, not exhausted, just. Drained.

 

They sit there for awhile. Sam doesn't know how long. One apology won't do it, won't absolve him, so in the scheme of things, they're gonna be here a lot, lot longer.

 

"Sam, look at me," Dean murmurs. Sam turns from the door and meets Dean's eyes. They're soft and glassy. Dean's lips are a little thin. Other than that, he can't get a full read on how Dean's feeling, on what Dean's about to say. Sam tries to prepare.

 

"You don't need to atone," Dean says, and the conviction is strong enough in his voice that Sam doesn't even try to interrupt and correct him. "That stupid fucking spirit thrives on fucking things up. And you were already fucked up, and your fucked up-ness fucked it up even more, so it used all the fucked up there and fucked you up even worse. That's all."

 

Sam can't get his mouth to raise in even the smallest of sardonic smiles. He's just numb. "Articulate," he says, just because he'd lose another small, intricate part of himself if he didn't read from the script.

 

Dean makes a strangled sound of frustration in his throat. "Please don't look away, I have to get through to you," Dean begs, and Sam's eyes zap back to Dean's. He hadn't even realized they'd been wandering.

 

"You care what I think, right? You're confessing to me? You don't have to. I forgave you. I forgive you. You have fucked up before. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be human. And before you say it, I know your fuck-ups have been pretty big. But guess what? Even then, immediately after, you recognized that. You took the blame, even though I had a part to do in the goddamn apocalypse, too. I started the ball rolling. And I'm not saying this for a pity party. Honest. It took me way longer than you to admit to myself all the ways I've hurt the world and you. But it's taking you longer to forgive yourself for that stuff, man."

 

Dean takes Sam's hand in his. Part of Sam doesn't want to listen. Most of him does. The air around them is frozen, dust motes suspended in the air. He gets the feeling that something big is going to happen.

 

"Stop it. I mean it. Stop. You are letting the Sheevra destroy you. You have handled bigger. God, Sam if--if we ranked people by the evils they've defeated, the people they've saved, you are literally higher on the list than Jesus. I believe that. You are at the top. So maybe it makes sense that you're depressed and sad and angry and none of those things. It'd be scary if you were perfectly happy. It'd be scarier if you never felt bad about the things that you've done and the things done to you."

 

Dean squeezes his hand, pulls him in a little closer. "But hey. Monologue almost over. This is the important part, so listen. The bad things that happened to you are not punishments for the bad things you did. Honest. The bad things were just bad. Fucking awful. Because sometimes bad shit just happens. Even to beautiful, brainy, selfless fucking idiots like you. I care about you, Sam. I do. So if you want to atone and be forgiven, we can do that. But I don't think that's what you need. I think you need help.

 

"I didn't know this was still going on, so I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry. I know things aren't perfect, and your head fucks you up sometimes, but I. Clearly we gotta talk about this stuff more. Maybe we shouldn't sleep in separate rooms, either. You wanna know why I'm saying this? Because it can get better. It will get better. You will not be down forever. You won't. You will be happy. It isn't crap. I promise. But what we've been doing hasn't been working. We need to do more for you, Sammy, you deserve more. In a fucked up sort of way, I'm a little glad for that Scottish bastard. Without that thing's intervention, you coulda crashed harder. Or even worse. Not at all."

 

Sam swallows back a sob but a single look from Dean and all bets are off. The last reserves of his energy leave in a single fell swoop and Sam falls into Dean's arms. He lets out a small, wrecked noise against Dean's chest, and shit. He fucking hurts. His body hurts and his head hurts and everything else does, too. It's better than the numbness, he thinks, but oh, fuck. He's not gonna stop hurting for awhile.

 

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean's murmuring when Sam comes back to himself. "Yeah, c'mon, that's good, Sammy. Dad and I were stupid. Don't box shit up. Bad advice. Terrible. Just goddamn cry. Sob your fucking eyes out. C'mon."

 

So Sam does.

 

***

 

Sam's immediate memories are composed of various aches and pains. Everything is a sort of pain-pill-lack-of-sleep lightly-colored blur, and well. It is nowhere near the worst thing that could be happening, and he's feeling something. He feels battered and beaten to shit but alive. He still gets his moments, some dangerous urges, but they're old... he wouldn't say friends. Old headmates.

 

Dean lets him sit for a couple of days before they do anything physical. Sam doesn't even mean sex. He hasn't thought about his dick in ages. For almost a week, they eat soup, watch movies, and talk. They'll be halfway through Ghostbusters and a scene they both have memorized will come on. It plays in their head as they face each other. "Better today?" Dean will murmur, and no matter what Sam replies, he says "how?" after, and it goes from there.

 

It's not weird. It's just a more overt version of the roughly cleared throats and slapped backs from before. Sam needs it. It's validation. It's therapeutic. He might not believe all the nice and loving things Dean says yet, but hey. With enough repetition, maybe some of it will finally sink in.

 

It's a good break, it's what they both asked for, but they are nomadic creatures, restless beings. A head needs to be chopped off every once in awhile or the flow of the universe is just plain off, capsized and tilting.

 

The sheevra is their transition into a new kind of normalcy. The first hunt. The first closing of a hunt. Sam dresses himself very carefully, mindful of bruised ribs and tender skin. He puts on a thick coat so Dean won't have to bug him about it.

 

When Sam heads out of his room, Dean's leaning against the stair railing, legs crossed at the ankles. He's pretending to check something on his phone. When Sam approaches, Dean's eyes flick up and he pockets his phone. He jerks his head back toward the door. "Ready?"

 

Sam nods. "Yeah," he says. "Let's put this thing to rest."

 

Dean gives him a quick smile and they're moving. It's early morning. The temperature's supposed to drop and stay dropped later today and most likely for the rest of winter, so they're taking advantage of the relatively decent weather.

 

The world is so sleepy that the crunch of gravel and dirt under their boots seems loud enough to be heard for miles. Dean pops open Baby's trunk and pulls out two banged up shovels. He hands one to Sam.

 

Dean gestures toward the densely packed forest. "Lead the way," he says.

 

Sam takes a step forward. Walking into the woods with Dean on his heels levels out his head, evens out his breaths. Maybe he should take Dean out here sometime. You know what? Sam downs a fast shot of courage.

 

"Hey," Sam says, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. "It's not so bad out here, you know. You should join me sometime."

 

Dean shrugs, lips pursed. "Okay," he says.

 

Sam holds a bendy, sap-sticky pine branch out of the way and Dean takes it from him. They move forward. Sam weaves down the familiar trail, and soon enough, they reach the juncture, the place where Sam took the less-traveled path.

 

He blunders through branches and Dean does the same, grumbling under his breath and hitting the particularly rambunctious bushes out of his way. They head down the hill, shuffling down slowly. Sam smiles at the long treads in the muddied ground where multiple people have very clearly slipped and fallen here before.

 

At the base of the slope, Sam turns to look at the cave. It's boring and un-magical looking. It's so exactly as he expected that his heart pulls a little. He's used to closure meaning bright flames, shiny blood, infinitely deep pits. This is. Dirt.

 

Dean rests a hand on his shoulder, barely touching him, but enough to stir the pond water in his mind. Sam pulls out his flashlight and click it on. "Alright," he says. "Start testing places and tell me if you find somewhere not completely frozen.”

 

Dean nods. "You got it, little brother."

 

They dig.

 

It's comforting.

 

Sam watches the bunching of the muscles in Dean's shoulder as he jams the shovel deep into the hardened ground, jumping on it for good measure. He's not sure if Dean's even aware of the slightly sexual sounds he's making as they work.

 

Sam heaves, sweats, and aches, but it's good. When he dumps the first pile of dirt on the dark ashes of his corpse in the small room, something leaves his head, loosens the bind that stops him from breathing.

 

He might be developing a small case of claustrophobia. He tries to fix it by going back in, over and over, shoveling as fast as his poor body can go, forcing himself to stay in there longer as the space gets smaller. The more they break the ground, the easier the dirt comes loose, and the faster they bury the past week.

 

The sun is right above their heads by the time Dean declares that it's "good e-fucking-nough." They've both cast off their jackets, sweat darkening the neck and armpits of their shirts.

 

"Back home?" Dean pants, and Sam would say yes, but Dean's eyes match the leaves of the River Birches that stubbornly hold onto the last colors of warmth and life. They stick out among the golds and browns, while his hair looks right at home being struck alight by the sunbeams.

 

"There's something I've gotta show you first," Sam says, turning away to let Dean privately sag his shoulders in relief. "Let's stay out a bit longer."

 

Sam starts moving. Dean wordlessly follows after. His hair is tugged on, feather-light, and a moment later, Dean grunts, "leaf in your hair."

 

Sam weaves and meanders until he finds what he's looking for. The path widens out and the biome seems to change. They go from low trees and massive, tangled clumps of underbrush and mud to tall, spindly trees and only a few clovers and weeds cluttering the ground. There's no need to stick to a path anymore. They have space to walk side by side, and Dean steps forward to join Sam, their hands loosely linked.

 

Sam stops and turns around to face Dean. "Close your eyes."

 

Dean gives him a look but obeys. He holds out his arm and Sam wraps a hand around it, right above his elbow, leading him through the trees, sunlight dappling the land before them, the leaves crunching underfoot.

 

It's a gentle slope downward before the trees trickle away and they're left to only browning grass and a massive, slate gray, mirror-like pond. The trees on the far side are smaller than Sam's pinky fingernail. There's a decrepit and useless dock and a boathouse on the left side.

 

"Open," Sam says, feeling giddy at the prospect of Dean's reaction. It's an old feeling, slightly unfamiliar, like a box of family heirlooms gathering dust in a stuffy attic.

 

Dean opens his eyes, squinting, and his mouth drops open when he processes the enormous, smooth stone set into the valley before them. Sam wonders if a tributary feeds into it, what kind of fish occupy it. For being so still, he's surprised it isn't covered in algae or lily pads. It means it's good for swimming. Too cold now, but. He'd like that, with Dean. Someday.

 

"How long have you known about this?" Dean gasps, stepping forward. He's walking in that same overly-controlled way he does around a shiny classic car.

 

"Not long," Sam says. "I never go this far back. I'm thinking the Men of Letters weren't as stuck up and fun-hating as we thought."

 

"Yeah, or this is to hold some badass, scary sea creature," Dean says.

 

"Pond creature," Sam says.

 

Dean whirls around. "If Nessie is here, we're raising her," he says breathlessly.

 

Sam laughs. "Thank you," he says.

 

Dean rolls his eyes in an impossibly soft way. "Shuddup." He loops his arms around Sam's waist and tugs him closer until they're nose-to-nose. He gives Sam a quick kiss, searing enough to leave Sam dizzy. When he pulls away, he smooths down Sam's hair and tucks it behind his ear. "How much money would you give me to jump into that right now fully clothed?"

 

Sam shakes his head. "Nothing," he says. "Pneumonia is nothing to joke about."

 

"Buzzkill."

 

They stand in silence for a couple of minutes, shoulders brushing, staring out at the lake. It's a promise of some sort, just the fact it's here, but Sam can't quite place what it means. It doesn't bother him. He'll figure it out.

 

His head has been lifted out over the mud and the dirt. He can see that the first snows of the season are coming, and he's ready. Maybe they'll even have a Christmas this year.

 

"You okay?" Dean whispers, out of the blue.

 

Sam takes a moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He finds himself nodding. He looks over to Dean, hair falling into his face. "Not really," he says, watching Dean's hope get tucked away somewhere private, "but a lot better than before. It's, uh, like you said. Next time you ask, it'll be 'not really, but a lot better than before.'"

 

"Hmm," Dean says, nodding back. "I'm gonna kiss you again."

 

Dean kisses him over and over again, but the smile just can't be kissed off his lips. After enough time, Dean gives up, and they separate just far enough to breath each other's air. Dean is smiling, too.

 

"Ready to go home now?" he asks.

 

Sam steps back and sighs, rolling his shoulders. He looks between the lake and Dean and thinks he's already starting to figure out that promise.

 

He turns away. Dean's hand brushes against his.

 

"Yeah," he says. "I think I'm ready."

  


fin

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to Amber for being a supportive reader and creating some of the most gorgeous art I've ever seen. I've done several bangs now, but it always hits me like it's new each time, so she had to be very patient with me and I appreciate it. You kickass, beebs!
> 
> Thank you to all the readers and commenters, too, you make my writerly heart sing <3 I really appreciate all the support.


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